


The Nasty

by wearenotamused



Category: British Royalty RPF
Genre: Mentioned Donald Trump, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-04-07 12:52:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19085440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearenotamused/pseuds/wearenotamused
Summary: The title comes from the inspiration. See note. :) This is really going to be a series of one-shots about Meghan and her interactions with different royals, maybe even Trump at some point, just to have extra fun. A lot of royal fans and especially the Meghan stans don't want her ever to meet Trump because they think she's fragile and might break and shit, but I personally think it'd be great to see what would happen if those two came face to face. I don't think Meghan is fragile or weak or would crumble at all. On the contrary, I think she'd rise to the occasion marvelously. I prefer to overestimate than to underestimate a person's capabilities. We live in a time when victimhood is given too much glory. Be the hero, not the victim.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *Meghan, who is now Duchess of Sussex, we have given her a different name, she can't make it because she has got maternity leave. Are you sorry not to see her, because she wasn't so nice about you during the campaign? I don't know if you saw that.
> 
> **I didn't know that. No. I didn't know that. No, I hope she's ok. I did not know that, no.
> 
> *She said she would move to Canada if you got elected. It turned out she moved to Britain.
> 
> **A lot of people are moving here so what can I say? No, I didn't know that she was nasty.

Meghan breathed a sigh of relief. Archie was sleeping, finally. She gave Nanny the night off. She smiled as she thought of the idiotic press still asking the question, would she hire a nanny? Of course she would, that was never a doubt in her mind. She's a royal now, with a celebrity outlook. Celebs and royals have nannies, hello! She'd said to Harry the other day, "You expect me to change diapers? I was on a hit cable show, get real. I'm not getting my hands icky. I love my kid, but ew. Gross." 

Now she was just happy to have some peace and quiet, Archie sleeping in his bassinet beside her bed, and she laid up on that bed, laptop on her lap, and glass of Tignanello on the nightstand. Harry was out. An official lunch for Trump's state visit. Thank god Meghan didn't have to go to any of that shit. Screw Trump. She wasn't bitter about his supposedly calling her "nasty." She knew what he meant. He had been saying that he didn't know she had been nasty about him in the past. She laughed at how the media willfully misunderstood his meaning and blew it up for the sake of clicks. It's all about ad revenue, that's how the game works, and Meghan knew how the game was played. She loved that the media was always ready to misunderstand Trump and jump to her defense, even, and especially, when it was unnecessary. "Trump's all right," she'd told Harry the other day. "His daughter rocks. Ivanka did Tig Talk. Super sweet. Gorgeous. I love her fashion line. I still adore this one dress, scoop neckline, to die for. I wear it all the time." 

Nevertheless, it was fun how the media made her Trump's victim. She knew why they did it. They wanted to paint him in that one dimensional way. A racist. A pig. Misogynist. She played into the narrative back in her acting and blogging and activist days. So many of her "friends" in that world turned out to be no better, sometimes worse than Trump. Like Matt Lauer, the sick fuck. Now, being a royal and 'above it all,' she could see the forest for the trees. She saw how they jumped on his words, "I didn't know she was nasty," and assumed he meant, "she's nasty," instead of, "I didn't know she said those nasty things about me." 

Screw Trump, though. He deserved it. He'd played with the devil and now the devil was biting him. Good for him. She was just glad to be out of the fray now that she was safely a royal duchess and had a beautiful baby boy and lived at this beautiful house in Windsor Great Park. 

Meghan was excited about this night. Harry would be staying in London, not to attend the State banquet for Trump, but just to support his birth family, particularly his brother, behind the scenes. Meghan saw this as her chance to have a girls' night out. She had invited Sophie, the Countess of Wessex to come over and hang out. She told Sophie to come over in her PJs, because that's what Meghan was wearing right now. Sophie had laughed at her American ways. Hanging out, girls' night out in PJs! Haha. "We'll see," said the countess. "I might not come in my PJs, but I'm definitely coming. See you soon, love." 

Ever since this one reporter at one of those Fleet Street rags had suggested Sophie as a "mentor" for Meghan, Meghan totally jumped on the idea. "You're amazing," she gushed at the countess. "Tell me how to be _exactly_ like you. I'm _all_ in." 

At first, Sophie was like, ok. What's going on? But eventually she realized it was Meghan's American way, to gush and exaggerate. The British understate things. Americans overstate. The British downplay. Americans go big. Sophie came to realize that it was Meghan's way of bonding. Sophie loved Harry, her nephew after all. She had watched him grow up, because even before she was officially a royal, she was Prince Edward's girlfriend and a frequent royal guest. Sophie had known Harry's mother quite well. There was a period in the 1990s when Sophie and Edward had been 'on the outs' with Charles due to their closeness with Diana. However, over time, Sophie and Edward had mended their relationship with Charles, and even with Camilla. Times change. People grow. True, there was a major setback when Edward's film crew was found out to be lingering in St. Andrews after Prince Charles had asked the press to leave his son William alone; William at the time had been starting his first year at the university of St. Andrews. That incident was a sore spot for awhile, a bone of contention between Edward and Charles. But again, the wounds were healed by the passage of time. Sophie had a lot of sympathy for both Meghan and Kate. She'd been in their shoes, to an extent. Of course, being Prince Edward's wife was different than being married to one of the late great Diana's sons. It was a different scale. Even so, Sophie understood the horribleness of being scrutinized by the tabloids. She knew how traumatic it was to be zoomed in on, analyzed, compared to the most beautiful people in the world. "Who wore it best" and other nonsense! So when Meghan reached out to her, even in that off-putting, exaggerative American way, she was all too happy to meet her halfway. 


	2. Pajama Party at Meghan's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is no purpose to this chapter except to be silly.

The Countess of Wessex slipped out of the palace, abandoning the banquet, as soon as she could politely and unobservably do so. She kissed Edward and slipped out through a side door, into a waiting car, and off she went to check on Meghan. On the way, she checked her twitter feed. A secret, banal account where she never put out a tweet but used only as a way to log in and read other people's tweets. She was just a silent "egg user" on the platform. No one knew who she was. For all they knew, she was a Russian troll account. She just wanted to see what people were saying about the banquet. It disgusted her to see that hardly anything was said about the brilliance of the Queen's diplomacy (ok, she was a bit biased about it, but she still believed it to be true) in her job as hostess.  _Why can't they give her credit for being a_ _nonagenarian and still working her ass off?_ It infuriated Sophie to see that no one seemed capable of saying anything nice. It was all vicious, mostly directed at Trump of course, but some of that viciousness was directed at the royals, and that really pissed Sophie off.  _We work our asses off for this bloody country and this is the thanks we get!_

The Countess jumped off her twitter app in disgust and went to check her messages. There was a text from Meghan. 

"Coming?" 

The Countess texted back: "Yes, or as you say YEP!"

"Haha," came Meghan's response. "I'll Americanize you yet!"

There was also a message from Edward: _I'm so proud of Kate, aren't you?_ (Edward had a real soft spot for Kate. He felt a kinship with his fellow DofE Gold Award recipient.)

"Yes, love." 

Sophie sent a text to Kate herself:  _Nice party hat, Katie. Congratulations on the sexy sash as well!_ (Referring to Kate's tiara and royal blue body sash. Sophie wore one too, it was a thing royals did, like beauty pageant queens.)

Sophie found Meghan, as promised, in her PJs. Adorable ones they were too. Thick flannel ones, two-piece, buttoned up to her neck, and matched with wool socks. Sophie frowned at the wine glass in Meghan's hand. "Are you drinking wine? Aren't you breast feeding?"

Meghan laughed. "No way! I tried that for like a day. That shit hurts!" 

Sophie rolled her eyes, but not in a mean way. She herself had breast fed both of her kids, but she had no judgement about it. Some women have a harder time of it than others. 

The two women checked on Archie, who was still sleeping happily in his bassinet. They browsed Meghan's collection of Rom Coms. Sophie chose for them, because obviously Meghan had seen them all. Sophie chose  _Two Weeks Notice_ because she saw it starred Hugh Grant and Sandra Bullock, and who doesn't like Hugh Grant and Sandra Bullock? 

They were having a great time until that scene where Hugh Grant walks into a cocktail party and greets none other than Donald Trump, playing himself. 

"Oh geez," said Meghan laughing hysterically. 

"It's like he's everywhere!" exclaimed Sophie. 

Meghan shook her head, honestly bemused as she watched the scene. "I don't know what's funnier, Trump's ridiculous hair and small hands, or that tie Hugh Grant is wearing!"

Sophie burst out laughing. "What about that whopper of a corsage on Trump?"

"Oh thank god," said Meghan as Trump exited the scene. "The only thing that makes this cameo ok is that it's short."

 


	3. Dear Meghan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meghan is moved by a letter from a very troubled someone.

Dear Meghan,

I'm sorry if it offends you that I address you so informally. Somehow, it feels wrong to use the 'royal highness' or 'ma'am' with you. I see you as too human for that. I'll be blunt. I need your help. I am a severely depressed and isolated person. I become more isolated by the day. I can't even make friends on the internet, let alone in person. In the real world, people are just not interested in being my friend and since I don't have friends they assume I'm too weird to bother befriending. On the internet, I alienate a lot of people on forums and social media because I like to question things, challenge people, and even though I'm always polite, people don't like it and they end up blocking me. I don't have followers anywhere because people see 'no followers' and don't want to follow someone without a single follower. I'm trapped. I've tried suicide. I've tried many forms of self-destruction and disappearance. Do you see how awful it is to be non-existent, completely invisible and unwanted? I'm writing to you.... not because I think you can solve my problems. I know you can't. I'm just hoping that maybe someone like you, someone people want to see and hear, can bring light to a place where there is nothing but darkness. I'm alone. I have no one. You are my last hope. You have the ear of presidents and celebrities. You are praised for being asked to guest edit a major magazine and everyone wants to be associated with you, with your name and title. People love you, and the people who don't automatically become the enemy of the people. No one would risk criticizing you unless they welcome being labelled racist. I only point that out because it shows how invincible you are. You alone could say anything and have no negative consequences. Whatever you say, the people will love you. You're in the opposite boat to the one I am in, excuse the metaphor. You are the most visible, the best loved, while I am the most invisible and, when seen or heard, the most laughed at. No one takes me seriously. I could not be a 'voice' to bring change, but you can. You can show people how ignorant they are. You can show people how misguided they are. You can bring real change for the better to the world. Meghan, I am counting on you. Please help me and in so doing you will help people like me. I'm sure there are others like me. They are just too afraid to admit it. They don't want to be laughed at. 

Your invisible 'fan',

Anne


	4. Meghan's Response

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meghan tries to find out how to reply to "Anne"

"What do you mean, 'there's no return address'?" Meghan snapped at her private secretary, Donna Fairfax.* 

"Ma'am, with all do respect, I don't know how to make it more apparent. It shouldn't be a surprise given that the person wishes to be anonymous. I doubt 'Anne' is even the real name."

Meghan scoffed. She was becoming more annoyed by the second. "I know that. I asked you what you meant because I'm assuming that you're not so incompetent as to have no resources for finding out how to communicate with her!" 

Donna swallowed her pride and, therefore, restrained her wounded feelings from being accused of being incompetent. Meghan, after all, was her boss. You can't just speak your mind all the time with your boss. She cleared her throat. "How do you know she or he is a she?"

Meghan rolled her eyes. "I don't, but the manner of writing just seems more feminine than masculine. I could be wrong, but, Donna, I'm quite serious. I need you to find out who and where this person is. I want to talk to ... him or her."

Donna sighed. "Ma'am? Have you considered that this might be a prank? It could be someone trying to... It could be a person in the media... or worse, someone who wants to physically harm you."

Meghan shook her head. "I don't think so. I have good instincts. This is legit. I know it."

Donna wasn't so confident as Meghan. She gave the letter and ripped envelope with postmark to the royal protection service. "Her Royal Highness would like to know the source of this communication. Can we trace it?"

The plainclothes officer looked skeptical. She shrugged. "I can try but I can't promise anything. We can easily trace the origin, where it was mailed from, but without a name, it will be difficult to identify the author. Anne is not an uncommon name, is it, and we can't be sure it's not an alias, can we?"

Donna agreed with the officer. She had no hope of her employer being satisfied in this matter. 

The officer stopped Donna before she would leave. "Miss Fairfax, please do be careful. And for the sake of Her Royal Highness, please advise her wisely. There are a lot of questionable characters in the world who would love to harm someone like her." 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *There is no royal private secretary named Donna Fairfax in real life. In this story, people who work for the Sussexes will always be fictionalized.


	5. To be invisible in a crowd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meghan gets out and about for an hour or two. All is well at first. Or as well as it can be when you can't even leave the house without a shadow. But that "shadow" is a badass anyway, and super nice, always calling you Ma'am and being Britishy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is satire. Don't take it too seriously. Your head might explode. So if you're in danger of that, take a chill pill before reading. Comments are welcome. And no I don't give a shit if you troll and post mean shit. Trolling can be good for the psyche. Cathartic. Try it.

The thing about being royal is that you can leave the house anytime you want (it's not prison, despite what some royals might joke about) but if you do leave, you just have to let the security officers know, and obviously, one or two of them must accompany you. Or at least follow you in a car behind or in front, sometimes both; it just depends on where you're going, how far, what for, for how long, and other boring details. Like, if you're just going to High Street to, like, window shop, you don't need a flotilla-sized car detail, the kind reserved for State visits and shit. A bodyguard in the passenger seat, if you're driving, will suffice in such a case. Same as if you're going to workout at the health club or some other mundane activity that everyone else in the world does with only themselves (or husbands and boyfriends) to rely on for protection. It's quite sick if you think about it. We're all as vulnerable as any other to being randomly assaulted or caught up in some mass shooting, but as society puts a higher value on the life an an HRH, taxpayers must pay to keep them safe; the rest of us? Well, you can apply to the county sheriff for a gun permit, or if a gun freaks you out, I guess there's always pepper spray. Or if you really want to be badass, you could go to a thrift store like my friend Nancy did and buy a cool ass pocket knife thing that looks like something Batman would pull out of his armor. 

Anyway, I'm off track. Sorry about that. So one day Meghan was sitting at home in Frogmore Cottage, bored as fuck, because that whole Vogue guest editing thing was done; Archie was taking a nap; Harry was away for the day doing engagements in Bumfuck, Cumbia; most of the royals, at least the ones Meghan had any interest in getting to know, were either in meetings or traveling or hiding away doing some damage control bullshit due to the whole Epstein/Prince Andrew thing rearing its ugly head again for the bazillionth time. What is the only Duchess of Sussex in history to do if she can't even ring up her pals at the Hubb Community Kitchen because all of them are, like, working class and shit and so they have these pesky things called 9 to 5 jobs, or in some cases, 6 to 2 jobs, or 8 to 4.... you know, working class like jobs where you get paid by the hour and have to clock in and out and you only get like 30 minutes for lunch. I mean, I'm just saying it's not like Meghan can just shoot a text to one of those people and be all, "Hey, let's do lunch....at, like, San Lorenzo, and have martinis, and then go sit in the back of a limo to binge watch some stupid shit on Netflix." 

No, instead of calling up "one of the girls" at the Hubb, Meghan decided to call the editor at Elle UK. She had half a mind to suggest guest editing an issue for that magazine like she'd done for British Vogue. It wasn't altogether farfetched, even though the idea of her asking to be asked to guest edit is kinda hilarious. After all, Elle UK had published her work prior to the royal marriage. Republished, to be more accurate. Still. A relationship existed there. There was history. And the whole "charity issue" thing generates a lot of social credit. People ate the whole Diana-do-gooder thing up in the 90s. They adored the whole Harry-follows-in-her-footsteps (even walking through a damn minefield wearing the same Halo Trust vest) in the 2000s. If Harry was now Mini-Diana, Nouveau Diana for the Nouveau Age, only of course he has a penis, what did that make Meghan? Quasi-Diana? Almost-Diana? Even-better-than-Diana, perhaps? One of Meghan's biggest fans, Lionel, certainly agrees with that one. Lionel loves to go on about how Meghan is classier than all of the royals, in all of royal history, combined. Obviously, that bout of hyperbole is meant to include Diana, Princess of Wales. But, honestly, from Lionel's perspective, it's not even saying all that much. Lionel believes the British royal family to be barely above the respectability of the whitest and trashiest of white trash; he does like to cite all the cousin-marrying and even instances of uncles marrying nieces. So, you know, Meghan being better than them.... well, you decide for yourself how much of a compliment that is! 

Well, anyway.... back to the story. Miss Elle UK, editor-in-chief, happened to be out of the office. Meghan would have done the logical thing (look her private mobile number up in her phone) but she couldn't remember the lady's name. When you're the Duchess of Sussex, you don't bother memorizing the names of magazine editors. That's what you have a private secretary for. But Meghan didn't want to talk to her private secretary, or her public one, or her press one, or any of those permed-up, pantsuited busy bodies who walk the halls of Kensington Palace. Or Buckingham Palace. Or in some cases St. James Palace, but anyway, I digress. Again. 

Sometimes a duchess just wants to chill. Let her hair down. 

Meghan grabbed her purse and keys and was heading out when....

"Going somewhere, Ma'am?"

Shit. 

She turned her best smile on the female bodyguard named Gertrude. Because what feminist doesn't dream of having a bodyguard named Gertrude? And this bodyguard, this gertrude, really was a feminist. She'd studied literature at Oxford, and when she wasn't analyzing Oscar Wilde, she was hitting the bags at the local Amateur Women's Boxing Club. She was Gertrude Stein with a punch. And now that she was a royal bodyguard (something she'd gone into because it paid the bills better than reading books) she was Gertrude with a Gun. Yep. It doesn't get any better than that. Meghan knows it. I know it. You know it now. 

Let's move on. 

"Oh, just going for a drive," Meghan lied. "To the castle."

Gertrude smiled. "Great. I'll get my coat and I'll check in at the Yard."*

Meghan smiled but the smile faded as soon as Gertrude was out of the room. She rolled her eyes.  _Great. My shadow._

* * *

*In the car, Meghan driving*

"Ma'am?"

"Umm?"

"I thought we were going to the castle. You missed the turn."

"Oh, I saw the Standard up. I'm not in the mood to talk to Her Majesty."

"Oh." Gertrude was perplexed, but being British, disinclined to be a nosy parker.

"I mean, she's nice and all," said Meghan. "But you know, it's not just tea with the grandmother, is it? It's the whole hoopla. The curtsey and the corgis and the how-do-you-do's."

"I understand, ma'am."

"And this whole ma'am thing, can't you just call me Meg?"

"Well, I...." Gertrude shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "I just don't think it would be quite proper."

"Of course not." Meghan was losing patience. "Because everything has to be proper. God forbid if anyone would just take a chill pill."

"Chill pill, did you say?" Gertrude raised her eyebrows. She knew the term and she felt slightly offended at the implication that she needed a dose of _chill_.

"Yeah, I mean...." Meghan faltered for the right words. "It's just you and me. It's not like Her Majesty is listening in. I think we're safe to drop the formalities for a bit."

"Ma'am, with all due respect, we can't be friends."

"Why not?"

"Because...." Gertrude struggled to be both blunt and polite. She did not like that she had explain this to Meghan. (Don't get me wrong. Gertrude liked Meghan. Quite a lot, to be honest. It was just that, in moments like this, there was a cultural divide and Gertrude felt ill-prepared to deal with it.) She continued: "We.... are professionals. It's a professional relationship. An emotional attachment would not only be inappropriate. It could hinder my job."

 Meghan let out a sigh of frustration. "Calling me Meg would constitute an emotional attachment?"

"Potentially."

"Gertrude?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"I think you might consider the possibility that you  _do_ need to take a chill pill."

"I'll keep an open mind. But where _are_ we going? I really need to keep reporting back in case there's trouble and we need backup." 

"I don't know, I just wanted to drive. Do you have any errands to run?"

Gertrude thought about it. "Well.... I do need to buy a new harness for my dog. She's lost a bit of weight, see. Helping me train for the London marathon....

Meghan brightened up immediately. "Great! Dog accessory shopping! I _love_ dog accessory shopping!"

"This is very good of you, ma'am. There are several pet stores in the area. Any of them will do, although that one in Windsor where you and Sir buy the dog food is quite beyond my budget."

"Oh don't worry about that," said Meghan flippantly. "I'll pay for it."

"No, ma'am, that's very generous but I can't accept that."

"Oh very well then. Is there a Petco anywhere?"

"A what?"

"Petco? I guess you don't have them here. Every suburb in the US has a Petco or a Petsmart."

"Well, there's a Pets at Home in Maidenhead."

"Great! I love Maidenhead."

Gertrude raised her eyebrows in disbelief, but also couldn't repress a smirk. "You do?"

"Sure," she reiterated with a faltering grin. Though she couldn't think of a reason why she would love the place. "Well," she spoke up after a short time of not knowing what to say. "I did spend the night before my wedding in Maidenhead. Or I think it was Maidenhead. It had a Maidenhead address."

Gertrude snorted. "The Cliveden House hotel! That's a bit like saying Balmoral is in Ballater, Ma'am."

"Well, isn't it?"

"Not really. Balmoral is in Balmoral. Ballater is just sort of.... the place where the estate office receives the post."

The parking lot at Pets At Home was packed full. Cars pulled out of spots but right away, cars pulled in. After driving through each aisle of cars twice around, Meghan began to miss the luxury of being in a chauffeured car that just pulled up to the door and let her get out, usually on a red carpet. "This sucks," she said. 

Gertrude nodded. "Indeed. We don't have to go in, ma'am. I can do my pet shopping in my own time." 

"No, we came all this way," Meghan insisted. "We'll get one of these spots." She said that just as a Ferrari zoomed its way into the spot Meghan had had her sights on. 

"I suppose people don't realize it's you."

Meghan winced. "I suppose not. Do you really think it would make a difference?"

"I do," said Gertrude. "It's not every one of these people who will be against monarchy. You'll have some Majesty magazine readers in the mix. Besides, Ma'am, everyone has seen your Vogue issue." Gertrude winked at her royal charge. "The woman who interviewed Michelle Obama ought to have some perks."

Meghan laughed. "The woman who interviewed Michelle Obama. Fame by association with Michelle Obama. There are worse things."

Eventually, they got a spot, and it wasn't too far back actually. At least it had one major advantage in being near a basket depository.

(to be continued)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The Yard = Scotland Yard, London HQ of the royal bodyguards.


	6. Dear Meghan/Meghan's Response (2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of the Dear Meghan storyline/see previous chapters 3 and 4

Letters are easy to trace by postmark. By that method, you can locate the exact mailbox from which the letter came. From the postmark you have the date of its mailing into the postal system and can also narrow down the time of pickup. Then you have surveillance footage of the actual mailbox, which in this case turned out to be in a shopping center parking lot in Shermer, Illinois. But narrowing down exactly which person.... that's a bit trickier. And as this particular case is not a criminal investigation, but merely a private probe by some royal security guards, there are many limitations. You can't just take random people into a police station for questioning: "Oh hi, you mailed a letter on such and such a day, would you mind answering a few questions?" Nope. That was not going to work. Even if the royal guards, whose badges came from Scotland Yard, suspected harmful intent against their royal charge, it must involve local criminal investigative authorities and they'd have to show probable cause. You can't just arbitrarily investigate someone, certainly not where the fourth amendment of the US Constitution is applicable, without some legally justifiable reason. And a letter from a lonely girl confessing a lonely life.... well.... 

Meghan was just too curious to let it go. She wanted to talk to this girl. She wanted, at the very least, to be able to reply by a letter. But the royal security guards were not able to view the surveillance, let alone narrow down the Sender, without having some just cause for investigation. 

Meghan considered what she could do personally. Should she read the letter in a video posted to the @sussexroyal Instagram account? No, she quickly negatived that idea. That was a violation of the Sender's privacy and might cause the Sender serious mental trauma, possibly even suicidal. Moreover, it would probably create a royal press scandal and Meghan would have to answer a lot of unwanted questions by possibly The Queen herself. 

She decided to do something a bit more sly. She had a friend in the US... They'd lost touch a little bit, but only because both were "so busy" all the time. They still had each other's contacts and somehow or another generally remembered to update each other on such things as changes in social media and geographical relocations. It generally went like this: "Hi Brie, this is Meghan, just letting you know my new address," "ok thanks Meghan, hope you're well." 

Who doesn't have one of those once-friends-now-just-hoping-to-be-friends-again-one-day-if-we-can-ever-manage-it? 

* * *

 

"Meghan? What a surprise." 

"Brie, hi, is this a bad time?"

"Not at all. I'm actually taking a long needed sabbatical." 

"Oh my god, that's great. What luck! Where are you?"

"I've rented a house in the middle of nowhere in Maine. The signal isn't so good out here so we get cut off, you know the reason."

"Right, well, I'm so sorry to bother you."

"You're not bothering me. I'm so excited to hear from you, the real you, not the media you. Besides, I came up here to write the novel I've had in me for years and just kept putting off in order to write the next self-help book. I've published ten books, but none of them are the one I'm most passionate about. And yet, now that I'm alone finally, with time to write it, I can't decide on the first sentence!" 

"Oh, no. Well, just try to relax. It'll come to you."

"I hope so. So what's up?"

Meghan took a long, troubled sigh. "I've got this problem. Well, more like... a mystery."

"Oooh, a mystery! Like Agatha Christie."

"Not exactly," said Meghan with a chuckle. "At least, I hope this one is more innocuous. I just need to know more about what I'm dealing with."

And so Meghan told her old friend the whole story about the letter, even reading it over the phone. They were cut off a couple times by the bad signal, but eventually it all got communicated successfully. The psychologist in Brie was intrigued. 

"I think you're dealing with someone who has severe social anxiety, Megs. Maybe even agoraphobia."

"That's like, fear of everything, right?"

"Right, just like Lucy van Pelt told Charlie Brown. Shermer, Illinois, huh? That's one of the suburbs of Chicago, if I remember correctly from our days at Northwestern."

"We never went out to the 'burbs much, did we?"

"Speak for yourself. I went out there more Thanksgivings than I care to remember to placate my relatives who I barely know. Anyway, I think you're right not to expose this person publicly. You don't want to humiliate her. It is a her, right?"

"I think so. The tone just seems... like a 'her.'"

"Well, regardless, you don't want to cause more social embarrassment to this person. That will just make the psychological trauma around social interactions worse. If I were you, I would let it go. There's nothing you can do. Without a point of contact, you can't reach out, not without great risk."

"You're right. I know you're right. It's very frustrating. I don't like letting things go."

"I remember how stubborn you are. But think about it. You might have helped her without even knowing that you helped. Just the act of writing that letter could have been cathartic. And you never know, maybe he/she will like having expressed it on paper, and the fact that they were able to safely, anonymously communicate it to you, that will build trust. Maybe they will write again."

 

 


End file.
